“I can cook them. I found part of an old
boat, and I’ve plugged up all the holes in the
shelter, and I only light a fire at night. Could
I fish here?”

“Too big a sea close in. I’ve got
some in the boat. I put out a line as I came
across. I’ll leave you some.”

“And have you a bottle—­or a bailing-tin?
Anything I could bring home some water from the pools
in? I have to go over there every time I need
a drink, and in the dark it’s not possible.”

“You can have the bailer. It’s a
new one and sound.”

“Now tell me, Bernel, if they find out I’m
here what will they do?”

“They might come across and try and take you,
unless they cool down; and that won’t be so
long as that Julie and Peter talk as they do.
She makes him do everything she tells him. He’s
a sheep.”

“And if they come across, what do you and Nance
expect me to do?”

“You’ve got my gun,” said the boy
simply.

“Yes, I’ve got your gun. But do you
expect me to kill some of them?”

“They’d kill you,” said Bernel,
conclusively. On second thoughts, however, he
added, “But you needn’t kill them.
Wing one or two, and the rest will let you be.
With a gun I could keep all Sark from landing on L’Etat.”

“Suppose they come in the night? How many
landing-places are there?”

“There’s another at the end nighest Guernsey,
but it’s not easy. And it’s only
low tide and half-ebb that lets you ashore here at
all.”

“How about your boat?”

“She’s riding to a line. Tide’s
running up that way, but I’d better be off.”

They stumbled through the darkness and the sleeping
gulls, which woke in fright, and volubly accused one
another of nightmares and riotous behaviour—­and
Bernel hauled in his boat, and handed Gard the tin
dipper and three good-sized bream.

“If you can’t eat them all at once, split
them open and dry them in the sun,” he said.
“They’ll keep for a week that way.”

“Tell Nance I think of her every hour of the
day, and I pray God the truth may come out soon.”

“I’ll tell her. It’ll come
out. She says so,” and he pulled out into
the darkness and was gone.